


on a night like this

by owilde



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dialogue Light, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Slow Dancing, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, mentions of mental health issues, why do I insist on writing things when I have a headache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 04:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15452946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Connor insists he wants to try slow dancing.Hank does some thinking.They're fine, really.





	on a night like this

**Author's Note:**

> "I'm not writing for a while," I said. "Oh shit," I said then, and wrote something.
> 
> I like these two a lot, so. Here we are. I stan two idiots. 
> 
> Title taken from LP's "Night Like This"

Hank, quite frankly, doesn't know what the fuck it is that he's doing.

This is a statement that is applicable to a multitude of specific things in his life. It is, also, an apt statement for the general state of his entire life. It's what he hears often, mostly at work because he rarely ventures outside these days unless it's work or some piece of shit bar.  _What are you doing, Hank?_ That's what they ask, their tone either amused or exasperated, often depending on Hank's own level of intoxication. Not that he's ever drunk at work. Or, well - not that he's ever smashed to a point of incoherence at work. 

He can't afford getting fired. Work is what keeps him grounded, gives him a routine, gives him something to do that isn't just moping around his house in his underwear and with greasy hair, the TV always on, always playing something he won't pay attention to because it only exists to numb the silence of the empty space around him. Work is Hank's anchor, his last chance - so, he can't get fired. He tries his best not to. And it's not like being a detective is always horrible; it's what he gravitated towards, in his late teens, unsure and yet certain of everything. It's what he's good at. It's what he likes, and would like more if there weren't sorry excuses of people like Gavin Reed working there with him.

But Hank doesn't put up a fuss. Generally speaking. The last time he did, it was because of Connor. A lot of things in his life now have to do with Connor.

Which is what brings him to his original train of thought, a stream of _What am I doings_ and questions and observations running around in his head.

Connor's other hand is on his waist, a gentle weight, while the other is grasping Hank's free hand, entwining their fingers and keeping their arms in the right position. At least, according to Connor it is just that. He looked it up.

Hank holds his hand on Connor's shoulder and wonders what the fuck his life's become. Connor emanates a warmth, and Hank doesn't really give a fuck whether it's artificial or not - Connor is artificial, more so in some aspects and less so in others, but nevertheless, he's not _human_ , and Hank knows that. Hank's always known that. It used to bother him, and now it doesn't, and sometimes he dwells on it because he dwells on a lot of things, all the fucking time. But dwelling isn't always so bad, he's found. When it's two in the morning and he's half a bottle deep and thinking about Cole learning to kick a football, yes. Then it is bad. Then it leads to things Hank knows are unhealthy. 

Dwelling on Connor isn't... Hank doesn't know what it is and isn't. Thinking of his own prejudices and biases is uncomfortable. No one really likes being exposed to their own flaws, much less poking at them to see their roots and consequences. Juxtaposing his prejudices and biases with all that's happened, and is happening now, and will happen, is strange. Hank tries to recall his hatred, and tries to reconcile it with what he's feeling now, and finds it impossible. 

Connor's presence has changed a lot. Hank thinks maybe work isn't his only anchor anymore. Maybe he does go out for more than work and booze; Connor likes to drag him for walks, to the movies, to grocery shopping. Makes him remember what living feels like, as opposed to simple existence. 

Connor doesn't fix everything. Hank knows there are still things he does that are worrisome, just as he knows that there are thoughts in his head no one will ever drown, and that it isn't his fault, nor Connor's - it just _is_. It fucking sucks, and Hank wishes, sometimes, that he could magically feel better, be better, but he can't. He can help himself, and he can let others help him, but he'll never be that thirteen-year-old, bright-eyed kid with hopes and dreams again. Hank thinks that's fine. He'd rather be fifty-three and legally allowed to buy as much whiskey as he wants to. 

Well. Fifty-three feels like an intimidating number sometimes. Hank thinks maybe he could settle for a compromising thirty-something. Then he thinks about his life as a thirty-something, the pain he had and the pain yet to arrive, and... Maybe fifty-three ain't so bad.

"Hank," Connor says softly, dragging him out of the muddle of his thoughts.

Hank hums in response, an acknowledgement that he's listening and an encouragement for Connor to keep talking. He'd rather listen to Connor than his bullshit thoughts, anyway.

Connor hesitates. He does that, now - pauses, hesitates, stutters and stumbles on his words. It's nice. 

"Hank," he repeats, keeping his head tilted slightly and his eyes trained on their entwined fingers. He moves closer, just a few inches at most, but it feels comforting, nonetheless. "For what you did, back at the precinct - I wanted to thank you." 

Hank's stomach twists uncomfortably at the memory from earlier today. His mouth pulls into a frown. "Dude was a fucking asshole," he says. "Don't mention it."

Connor laughs a little. "He was," he agrees easily. Then he adds, "The punch was, perhaps, a bit too much."

Hank's frown turns into an amused grin. "Nah," he argues. "The guy needed some fear of God in him."

Connor's gaze slides from their fingers to Hank's face. He's smiling, too, the corners of his eyes crinkled in an endearing way. "You call yourself God, now?" He asks, in the tone that Hank knows to be teasing but a stranger might not. 

Hank scoffs. "Fuck that," he says. "I just mean he was too high on his damn horse. Who the fuck even hates androids anymore? It's been almost a year."

Connor's smile flickers a little, but it doesn't disappear. "Old habits die hard," he says. "That is what you told me, yes?"

Hank did say that. Hank said that when Connor came back from Markus' house and found Hank hunched on the couch in the dark, nursing his umpteenth bottle of beer with a sour expression and bitter words. It had been a week after everything. Hank had felt alone, and lost, and confused. Mostly confused. He'd thought he'd find answers in the bottom of the bottle, or that he'd at least pass out and forget that there were any questions to begin with. Instead, he'd only worried Connor, and lashed out. He'd forgotten what it felt like, to have someone worry about him. It was a slow climb back up. Connor was wary around him for three days afterwards, and Hank had never felt more disgusted with himself. 

After that, Connor rarely found him drunk and alone in the dark, anymore.

"Guess so," Hank grumbles, trying to forget the memory. It refuses to leave the forefront of his mind, so Hank sighs and delves in. "You know, I was like that because I didn't know how to feel about you."

Connor lifts a brow. The song in the background melts into another as they continue swaying in the middle of the living room in the dim evening light. "Like that," he repeats. "Drunk and abrasive?"

"No one ever said I was perfect."

"No," Connor agrees. He sounds vaguely amused again. "No one's certainly claimed that."

Hank shoots him an annoyed look, and Connor grins. He shuffles another few inches closer, practically pressed against Hank. He doesn't mind. 

After a small silence, Connor continues talking. "What do you mean, exactly," he says, "when you say you didn't know how to feel about me?"

Hank suppresses the urge to sigh. "We've had this conversation," he reminds. When Connor merely shrugs, he keeps talking. "You were an android. Up until that time, I'd thought I should've been the fucking poster boy for the anti-android movement. I thought I hated you. I did hate you. Not you, just... the thought of you. And then after all the shit that went down, after..." He pauses, letting Connor remember the events on his own. Hank clears his throat. "Well, anyway, there you were. In my house, at my work, and I didn't hate you anymore. And that pissed me off. Couldn't figure it out for the life of me."

Connor eyes him, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Couldn't figure out you actually liked me?" He asks, and he manages to sound neutral and smug at the same time, in the way only Connor ever could.

Hank shakes his head, snorting. "Don't let it get to your head," he says. "Your ego's already too damn big as it is."

"I'd never," Connor assures him, but his tone doesn't hold an ounce of conviction. 

The song fades away, replaced by silence. Slowly, they stop swaying. The last rays of sunshine spills through the curtains, painting everything yellow.

Connor glances at the door to the backyard. "Sunset?" He asks.

Hank knows what he's asking. "Sure," he says. "Maybe you can take more pictures for you to paint later."

When Connor beams at him, Hank's not sure which shines brighter, him or the sun.


End file.
